Wood's Revenge

by Steven Becker

  “I know you two white trash pieces of crap burnt through all your money already, so tomorrow morning you are going fishing. Except you are going to put the fish back and make this like it never happened.”

  8

  Once again, sleep eluded Mac, and he was up before dawn. There were too many coincidences for this not to bring trouble, and he wanted the salvaged boat on the other side of the island. It would be less visible there, and he planned on leaving it in a way that if it were found, he could claim ignorance. Working alone, he used the center-console to pull the boat off the beach. Without power to the hydraulic lift motors, he had to leave the heavy engines down, causing the boat to draw close to three feet of water. This forced him into a circuitous route that took far longer than the quarter mile around the island.

  Leaving the navigation lights off, to avoid being seen by the handful of fishermen already running out to the Gulf, he worked a large circle into deeper water, cutting back in when he passed the shallowest flat. A few minutes later, he dropped anchor, released the tow line and pushed the salvage boat toward the beach. Fortunately, it was close to the bottom of the tide, making it easier to lodge the lower units and propellers in the sandy bottom. A standard anchor in this type of bottom would require an eight-to-one scope, or, in this case, with three feet of water and another three-foot rise to the bow, almost fifty feet of line in the water. Wanting to keep the boat close to the beach and out of sight, that amount of line would create a hundred-foot swing when the tide changed.

  Instead, he chose a pole system. Mounted on the transom, the pole dropped straight down into the bottom, securing the boat exactly where the fisherman wanted it. In some cases they used two poles in tandem to eliminate the swing of the boat. His choice was a much simpler length of PVC pipe left over from the remodel of the house. Taking the ten-foot-long, two-inch diameter pipe, he used a small sledgehammer to drive it deep into the sandy bottom directly between the twin outboards where it would be hard to see. He was covered in sweat when he finished, but the pipe was only two feet above the water level. At high tide, only a few inches would show. With a piece of line he tied the boat off, grabbed the anchor as a decoy, and slid over the side. He dropped it about twenty feet from the bow and continued to wade back to his center-console. Looking back at his work, he was satisfied—unless someone boarded the boat, they would never see the ruse.

  When he returned, Mel was waiting on the small beach with a determined look on her face and a messenger bag slung over her shoulder. It was a look he hadn’t seen in a long time, and he wasn’t sure if this was a good or a bad thing. They had decided to take the trawler to Marathon. There was no guarantee this would be a quick trip, and he wanted to be prepared.

  After packing the snook he had examined earlier in a cooler, he stashed it aboard and started the engines. Nudging the starboard throttle just enough to push the boat forward to the pile, he waited for Mel to pull the line off. Once they were free, he used both controls—port in reverse and starboard forward to spin the boat—and then he pushed them both together, steering a heading out the channel and toward Marathon. It was a beautiful morning, the start of a day he would rather be out fishing. His mind churned as he steered, his hand worked the wheel, knowing the course and how to avoid the sandbars.

  “I’m going to take her around and tie up at the Anchor.” Rusty’s place had plenty of room in the turning basin, and if the old man was around he could likely borrow a car. Half an hour later, the smell of Rufus’s fish sandwiches had his mouth watering as they turned into the canal leading to the dock. There were two sailboats in residence, leaving plenty of room to tie off.

  Rusty appeared just as Mac positioned the boat. He went back and grabbed the stern line, tossing it across to Rusty to help stop the forward momentum of the boat. The tide was coming in fast now, and Mac waited for Rusty to secure the line before he backed the stern to the dock. Mel hopped over the gunwale and tied the bow line to a cleat.

  “Might want to put a spring on her too,” Rusty said, his eyes looking at the sailboat in front of the trawler.

  “I got it, old man,” Mac joked. Rusty was a retired marine and diver who had probably forgotten more than most men would ever learn. He might have put on a few pounds over the years, but underneath lay dormant the Marine he had been. “Maybe you could tell Rufus we’d love a few sandwiches.”

  “Come on up to the bar when you get squared away,” he said, looking over at Mel, who was already on the dock with her messenger bag. “If you’re thinking of staying, there’s a power hookup on the piling there.”

  “Thanks. We might take you up on that,” Mac said, hopping onto the dock with the cooler in hand. Together the three of them made their way to the bar. “I’m serious about the sandwiches.”

  “Thought you brought your own,” Rusty said, gesturing to the cooler, and walked over to the outdoor kitchen. Mac looked over and waved to the old Rastafarian cook.

  Inside, the bar was quiet. The Rusty Anchor was a locals’ spot, a little off the beaten path for the tourists cruising US 1 looking for action. If the wind were up, there would be several fishermen hanging around, and later the locals would fill the place. This early on a pristine day, the bar was empty.

  “Okay to use the Wi-Fi?” Mel asked.

  “You’d know better than me. Julie set it up the last time she was through here,” he said.

  Mel and Rusty’s daughter had grown up together. “How is she?”

  “All classified, but her and Deuce seem to be getting on real well,” he said. “Y’all want a beer or something with those sandwiches?” Rufus had just walked in with two plates and set them on the bar.

  They shook their heads at the same time and asked for water.

  Mel had the laptop open and her fingers were flying across the keyboard. Every few minutes, she stopped and took a bite of her sandwich.

  “What’cha got cookin’ over there?” Rusty asked.

  Mac knew Mel was too engrossed in what she was doing to answer. “Hey. You know any marine biologist types around? Maybe someone who could look at something and keep it quiet?” Mac asked.

  Rusty looked at the cooler and then over at Mac. “I’d expect Trufante to be walking in here any minute, as secretive as you two are.”

  Mac thought about bringing him into the loop, but decided against it. The authorities already knew about one murder and the sinking of the boat. There was no reason to involve Rusty. “Just caught something I’m not real sure of.”

  Rusty gave him a look that clearly said he knew better, but let it go. “There’s a group from that Turtle Hospital that comes in here some nights. Good folk, mainly. Maybe ask over there.” He rubbed his chin. “Girl named Jen. Doesn’t drink much, looks pretty responsible.”

  Mac thought about bringing an unknown into the equation. He decided to trust a bartender’s personality assessment, and they needed someone to look at the fish. Alicia’s boyfriend, TJ, ran a dive shop up in Key Largo. He had some kind of marine science background too, but that was sixty miles away, and on a day like this he would be out on charters.

  “Turtle Hospital it is. What do we owe you?” Mac asked.

  “I’ll start you up a tab. Sounds like you two are up to something that’ll keep you in town for a few days.”

  Mac walked over to Mel and looked over her shoulder at the screen. “Can you break away for a few minutes so we can get these fish checked out?”

  She didn’t look up. “Sure. Just emailing Alicia to see if she can help with this phone. There are some password protected apps on it.”

  “Funny, I was just thinking about them. Figure they’re going to be out all day,” Mac said, looking out at the water, wishing he would be as well.

  “Take your car?” Mac asked.

  Rusty reached below the bar and tossed him a set of keys. “Just don’t wreck it,” he said.

  Trufante had slept despite the surroundings, mainly due to his after-binge hangover. He woke, fidgeting with his ti
es. With every movement, the barnacle-covered trapline that the brothers had tied him with cut into his skin.

  “This is your fault.”

  Trufante turned to the voice. “What are you talking about? It was your idea.”

  “If I didn’t have to meet you to get that net back . . . ”

  Light shot into their eyes, blinding them momentarily when the door opened.

  “You boys have some explaining to do,” a woman’s voice called out.

  Trufante squinted into the light, trying to see who she was.

  “Bring them over here,” she said.

  Hector and Edgar each grabbed one arm, pulling Trufante out of the building and dropping him on the crushed coral outside. He didn’t resist, grateful for the fresh air and to be away from the fish. A minute later, Jeff was deposited next to him.

  “These the guys that brought in the fish?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Hector said, losing the British accent from last night. “This is them. Got the net back too.”

  “Good. Now boys,” the woman said, pulling the bands back on a speargun. Trufante saw the barbed end point toward him and felt another old injury twitch. “You set this deal up?”

  “We both came up with it,” Trufante said. Despite his loathing for Jeff, he was a stand-up guy and not going to throw him under the point of the spear. Maybe together they could get out of this.

  She pointed the spear at Jeff. “No. It was him. He made me take my boat and net these fish. I knew it was bad,” Jeff whined.

  Trufante turned and looked at him, amazed he had the balls to outright lie. Before he could come up with a denial, he saw the glint of metal as the spear flashed by and winced. It was not meant for him. The three barbs entered Jeff’s thigh, taking him to the ground. He squirmed, writhing in pain with both hands on the shaft, trying to pull it out. The woman calmly walked up to him and placed her shoe against his leg. Trufante thought she might show mercy and remove the spear. Instead, she pressed down and twisted the barbed tip deeper. Jeff screamed in pain.

  “That’s what you get for lying,” she said. “You two,” she called to Hector and Edgar. “Get him on the boat and load the fish.”

  “What are you going to do with me?” Jeff whimpered.

  “Take the fish out and dump the load somewhere they won’t be found,” she said to both men.

  Hector and Edgar stood to the side giggling, like two high school girls sharing a secret.

  “But what about this?” Jeff grabbed the shaft.

  She shook her head dismissively, reached over and yanked the spear out. Jeff screamed again and crumpled on the gravel, unconscious.

  Trufante watched as the two men hauled Jeff toward the dock and loaded him on his boat. They came back down the path, each one giving Trufante the evil eye, before entering the storage building. A forklift emerged a few minutes later with the crates and moved slowly toward the dock. It stopped and the two men grunted and grumbled as they loaded the bins of fish onto the boat. The last one loaded, Hector returned the forklift and came toward them.

  “Might as well get going,” she said to Trufante. “In the trunk of the car is a cooler.” She pointed the bloody tip of the spear at the Audi. “Put it on the boat.”

  Awkwardly, he gained his feet and shuffled to the car. The trunk was open, and he reached in, both hands still bound together, to grab the handles of a soft-sided cooler, which he carried to the dock.

  “Ahoy, matey. What’s in the bag?” Hector asked.

  “Lady said to put it on the boat,” Trufante said, extending his long frame across the gap between the boat and the dock.

  “Cheers, mate,” Hector said, jumping off and releasing the lines. “Maybe she bought you some beer for the ride back.”

  Somehow he didn’t think so, but with Edgar’s gun trained on them, he had no choice but to set it under the seat.

  Jeff was still crumpled on the deck. Trufante went to the helm and turned the key. The old diesel started with a throaty cough and he pulled away from the dock, wanting to be rid of the woman and the two brothers. He turned before they left the channel and saw the brothers and the woman staring at him. Nothing good ever happened to him at Monster Bait.

  9

  Mac and Mel left the Anchor and turned left onto US 1. After about a mile, Mac saw the sign for the Turtle Hospital in the distance and slowed.

  “It’s all the way up there. What are you doing?” Mel asked.

  “Look. That’s Pamela, Tru’s girlfriend,” Mac said, pulling over to the side. “Something’s not right.”

  “I’ll say. The fact that you’re pulling over to help the loser’s girlfriend. Come on, Mac. We have stuff to do.”

  “It’ll only take a minute. Looks like something’s wrong,” he said, getting out of the car and walking to the bench.

  The walking and bike trail was a dozen feet off the highway, protected by a barrier of grass and trees. Mac walked up to the prone figure on the bench and shook her shoulder.

  “Hey, Pamela, you okay?” he asked.

  She moved slightly and turned toward him, squinting into the sunlight. It must have been a rough night. Her hair was a mess, and mascara had run and dried in black lines down her face. “Huh?”

  “Pamela, it’s Mac. Tru’s friend,” he said, waiting for her to get her bearings.

  “Mac Travis. Look here. Tru said to find you. I been walking all night,” she said.

  “It’s okay. I’m here. But what about Tru?” Mac asked.

  “These creepers came into the bar and took him last night.”

  “Do you know who they were?”

  “No, but the guy was talking in a strange accent. Kept calling Tru matey, and he called me a broad,” Pamela said, running her fingers through her hair. “Can we get some water or food or something? It’s been a long strange trip.”

  “Yeah. Sorry, come on,” Mac said, leading her to the car.

  “Look what the cat dragged in,” Mel said.

  “Come on. She needs help and Tru’s in trouble,” Mac said, helping Pamela into the back seat.

  He went back around to the driver’s side and got back in. Mel’s look tore through him. “What?”

  “Mac Travis. Picking up strays and trying to save the world,” she said.

  He could see the old Mel coming out. She had a plan, and anything that interfered with it got brushed to the side, including himself at times. “It’s got to be connected. Let me get her a bottle of water and some food. She can wait in the car,” he said, starting the engine and pulling into traffic. A few blocks ahead he saw a gas station. After stopping in front of the pump, he gave Mel a “play nice” look and went in, coming back a with a large bottle of water and a bag of chips. Handing them through the open window, Pamela took them greedily. He decided to top off the gas to make sure Rusty got the car back better than he’d taken it and pumped a few gallons into the tank.

  Leaving the gas station, he drove another few blocks and turned right into the Turtle Hospital. The lot was almost full, and he parked next to their orange and white “turtle ambulance.” The facility had grown over the years rescuing, rehabilitating, and releasing thousands of turtles. You could still tell it was built from the bones an old motel, but they had been successful and were able to expand.

  “We’ll be right back,” Mac said to Pamela. There was no response, and he looked back at her. She looked like a feral cat, eating greedily, and constantly scanning their surroundings for danger. Stuffing her face with chips and alternately washing them down with large gulps from the almost-empty water bottle, she looked like she hadn’t slept in days—which was probably the case, he thought, thinking back on Trufante’s history.

  Together they walked into the office. It looked like a tour was getting started, and it took a few minutes for the woman behind the counter to acknowledge them.

  “We’re looking for someone named Jen,” Mac said.

  The woman gave him a protective look. “She expecting you?”
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  “No. We got kind of referred to her about a marine biology question,” Mel said, shoving Mac aside. “My dad was Bill Woodson. I think he knew the guy that founded this place. Just take a minute.”

  Now she smiled. “Hold on then. Let me see if she’s free,” she said, getting up from the stool and walking out the back door. A minute later, she was back with another woman.

  “This is Jen,” she said.

  “What can I help you with?” the woman asked.

  “We found some fish washed up on the beach. Something’s not right with them, and we were looking to get an opinion,” Mel said.

  “I have a few minutes. Why don’t you bring them around back,” she said.

  “I’ll get the cooler,” Mac said, going toward the door. He left the air conditioned building and walked across the parking lot. The car was empty. The empty water bottle and bag of chips were all that remained of Pamela. Shaking his head, he went to the trunk, opened it, and removed the cooler. It was probably a good thing it had been locked in the trunk, he thought. As ravenous as Pamela was, she might have had eaten some bad sashimi.

  He took the cooler back to the office and went in. Jen led them through a side door and they entered the medical part of the facility. Mac glanced around, surprised that it looked like any hospital he had been in. Walking past a large room that looked like it was set up for surgery, Jen took them into an exam room.

  “Okay. Let’s see what you have,” she said.

  Mac set the cooler on the table and stepped away. Jen opened the lid and removed the gutted snook and its stomach contents from the baggie. She set them aside and took out the redfish. Under a strong light, she examined the fish. “These from down here?”

  He shook his head. “Strange this time of year. I’m thinking that king tide and storm brought them down,” he said.

  She nodded her head. “We got a lot of turtle activity the last few days too,” she said, taking a scalpel from a drawer and slicing the stomach open. Mac winced, but the fish were still frozen. A minute later, she laid the stomach contents on a stainless steel pan.